


Betrayal and Forgiveness

by speedgriffon



Series: I Shall Taunt You a Second Time | Dragonborn Fiona Fics [7]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied Relationships, Thieves Guild Questline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-31 21:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17857583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedgriffon/pseuds/speedgriffon
Summary: After the events of Snow Veil Sanctum, Brynjolf battles with an inner turmoil of emotions he is not used to. (A prompt response that got longer than expected).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the prompt: breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths

Mercer had betrayed them all.

Brynjolf was still reeling from the information— _hand delivered_ by a person he had long thought was an enemy of the Guild. Karliah had shown up with Gallus’s journal, the entire thing proof enough that Mercer had been stealing from under their noses for years, possibly decades. It had been Mercer who had killed Gallus and framed Karliah, and now that he was close to being found out, had run— _like a coward_.

When was the last time he had even _seen_ Mercer? The Guildmaster had returned from Snow Veil Sanctum a few weeks prior with an elaborate story of survival, and how their newest recruit _Fiona_ had been tragically killed. The way Mercer described her last moments of agony—“ _she called out for you_ ”—he had said with the slightest trace of amusement.

At least Brynjolf now knew that it was all a lie.

His heart had nearly stopped when Fiona appeared from the shadows behind Karliah, adding her voice to support what the disgraced thief was insinuating. She kept her distance, gaze never raising high enough for him to see her face from beneath her hood. Karliah didn’t give him the chance to say anything to her anyways, insisting the group check the vault for clear proof. Delivn and Vex were equally skeptical, but as they opened the lock with their keys, the content—or lack thereof—painted a clear picture.

“That son-of-a-bitch!” Vex yelled, pulling her dagger from her belt. “I’ll _kill_ him!”

“Vex!” Brynjolf reprimanded. “Put it away, right now.” She glared, unmoving. “We can’t afford to lose our heads.” His gaze shifted for a moment towards Fiona, who was watching the scene carefully. “We need to calm down and focus.”

Delvin intervened, the only one brave enough to approach Vex. “Do what he says, Vex,” he implored. He gripped her wrist, lowering it back to her side. “This isn’t helpin’ right now.”

With a huff, Vex turned on her heel and left the room. Delvin shook his head at those who remained before following after her. Karliah regarded him with a nod, disappearing after the others. It was then that Brynjolf noticed that Fiona was still within the vault, standing near the back. She was focused on one of the many emptied chests, reaching out to run her fingers across the metal lock. He hesitated before approaching, unsure of if she wanted to be alone with him in that moment.

Before she left for Winterhold with Mercer, the two had argued. While their _friendship_ was sometimes sprinkled with disagreements, it was over trivial matters. Nothing a few drinks or a few flirtatious words couldn’t fix. But that eve, they fought over a _certain secret_ Fiona had been keeping from the Guild— _from him_.

The damn woman was Dragonborn. _The_ Dragonborn. Rumors had been circulating for months across Skyrim, the news of dragons reaching Riften shortly after the destruction of Helgen. As time drew on, more rumors circulated of a mysterious woman traveling across the holds, helping people without question. A woman with a golden heart, and _literal_ fire in her lungs. When Brynjolf first met Fiona, she was the _last_ person he expected. The spitfire rogue who was handy with the steel _and_ steal—the beautiful Nord who had stolen his heart. Not that he had ever dared to tell her _that_.

Fiona had held back the truth for reasons Brynjolf was too frustrated to listen to at the time. Perhaps to stay anonymous, perhaps to have a little fun while she helped stop the end of the world (or so he gathered). It was foolish of him to think she was there for the long haul. Those selfish emotions got the better of him, and he erupted, accusing her of betraying their— _his_ —trust. She had called him on the bullshit; he had plenty of secrets he was hiding as well. It reached the breaking point when Brynjolf foolishly taunted her, asking if she was going to _shout_ at him.

If Mercer hadn’t intervened, the two would’ve likely gone on until there was nothing to salvage. Fiona left with the Guildmaster, fury in her eyes and without another word spoken. He carried that anger with him until Mercer returned nearly two weeks later. Fiona was dead. Brynjolf had never dealt with such grief and confliction simultaneously before. He was guilty, _furious_ —at himself and Fiona. Why had she gone with Mercer, why had _he_ allowed her to go? His heart ached to the point he was almost ashamed—he had no right to carry _those_ emotions around when their last words to each other had been so hateful.

Except—Fiona was alive. He had a chance to address the regret aching in his bones.

Brynjolf hadn’t realized how long he had just been standing there, just staring at her profile in thought until she slowly turned her head towards him. He still couldn’t see her face, and the unknown of her expression terrified him. As if she could tell, she reached up, pushing back her hood before settling her gaze on his. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach. She was there, but also so very far away.

Regardless of how _unwise_ it was, his first instinct was to sweep her into his arms—so he moved to do just that, only pausing when her hand jolted up to stop him. Her expression hadn’t changed, however, and it was confusing. She rested her hand lightly against his chest, and he glanced down, noting the way one of her fingers was bandaged.

Brynjolf should’ve known she wasn’t ready for that kind of contact, not when he hadn’t even said a word to her directly. But then she reached up with her other hand, brushing across the side of his face in a fleeting touch. He flicked his eyes closed at the sensation, steadily breathing out when she gingerly pushed back some strands of his hair. Her fingers lingered.

“I’m so sorry,” Fiona whispered. He snapped open his eyes to find hers darting across his face, the dark blue intensified by the shimmer of barely-there tears. Brynjolf frowned—he had meant to, and _wanted_ to apologize first. She was always good at stealing the words from his mouth. Before he could say anything else, she continued. “For whatever lies Mercer told, whatever he made you believe—”

She gestured to the empty vault, pulling her hands away from him. They nervously twisted in front of her stomach. “I’m _so sorry_ for not telling you sooner.”

Brynjolf understood without her elaborating. He nodded once—little did she know he had already forgiven her, when he was _mourning_ for her. There was no use in harboring such resentment for the dead. Even now as she stood before him, clearly alive, he decided to leave that anger buried. There was an ache from within, and a tingle that spread across his skin, screaming for him to act. This time, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her middle, bringing her to him as he pressed his lips to hers.

For all the ways they had kissed before, all the ways _he_ had kissed her—this was different. Not a trace of teasing, or playfulness. Just pure emotion, fueled by an emotion Brynjolf wasn’t ready to confront just yet. He kissed her a little more firmly, holding her body tight to his. In some ways, he was ensuring that she was really there, was really _alive_. In others, he wanted to make sure she had some understanding of how he felt. Divines knew he was always better with actions than words. Their mouth broke away from each other, but neither made any movement to shift their bodies away. They stood there—foreheads pressed together, arms still wrapped around each other in desperate clings.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against her lips. Brynjolf peeked open his eyes, mesmerized by the way hers were already shining back at his. “Fiona—”

“Please,” she responded, shaking her head slightly. She stopped him from talking with another kiss. “You don’t have to say anything,” she explained. “Bryn—”

It was Brynjolf’s turn to cut her off, covering her mouth with his own. It was soft and warm—chaste compared to any other kiss they had shared, and yet, it was full of meaning. He wasn’t going anywhere. She wouldn’t be alone.


	2. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got a prompt for "interrupted almost kiss" that fit well as a follow up to the first part, so I figured I'd put it here instead of the Prompt-fill series.

The Guild was on high alert ever since Karliah had appeared, devastating them all with the news of Mercer’s treachery. Many of the senior members had left the Cistern, reaching out to any contact they could get a hold of in an attempt to track the man down. The remaining thieves stayed in the Ratways, guarding what little they had left. Fiona had also stayed behind, thankful to be somewhere familiar after what Mercer put her through. She had traveled with Karliah for a short while, then by herself across Skyrim in an attempt to translate Gallus’ journal. It had been successful, and Fiona was glad to be back in Riften…even if her return with Karliah hadn’t been welcomed with open arms.

She was grateful that at least Brynjolf had forgiven her for hiding the fact that she was Dragonborn—a secret that, had she died, would’ve left their last encounter an argument. Fiona reminded herself to thank Karliah again for saving her life, otherwise she would’ve never had the chance to make amends with the man. He too stayed within the Cistern, the two eventually moving to talk in the back training room. Nobody else was there—they could be alone.

They had been discussing Mercer’s betrayal for a few hours now, Brynjolf asking her general questions about everything she had learned from Karliah. Even though Fiona could tell he wanted to, he hadn’t dared to ask what had happened at Snow Veil Sanctum. She sat on the ground in front of the practice chests, fiddling one of the locks with a pick. It was something to keep her hands busy, something to focus her mind on as Brynjolf spoke.

“Was there anything else she told you?” he asked.

He tossed his dagger from his hand at the training dummy, the blade burying itself in the stuffed throat with a thud. Brynjolf crossed the short distance to yank the blade free, eyeing her. Fiona hadn’t responded, her neck and throat burning as she looked at the white tufts of cotton coming out of the dummy. Her heartbeat increased, and her fingers began to shake until the metal pin in her hand fell to the floor.

“Lass?” His voice was laced with concern. “Fiona, what’s—” He stopped himself, wincing as if he knew it was foolish to ask what was wrong. Considering everything that had occurred, he knew better. _Everything_ was wrong. But she had only been there, back with the Guild—back with _him_ —for a short time. For him, she had _died_. Her reappearance still had some getting used to. Brynjolf extended his hand to her, and after a moment of just staring at it she finally let him help her stand.

His fingers tightened around hers, not letting her break away so easily. His expression was solemn, and a part of her wished that they—whatever _they_ were—would go back to the way it was before she left with Mercer. She knew it would take time, but she yearned for some normalcy. A few flirtatious words, a drifting hand where it shouldn’t be, a stolen kiss… _anything_. Fiona never imagined she’d ever be in the state of mind to _miss_ that lecherous version of Brynjolf.

Instead, he had been _soft_ with her. Reserved. He hadn’t said anything, but the way he touched her, the way he had _kissed her_ , it spoke volumes to how he felt. Or maybe she was reading into things. Brynjolf could have this air of mystery about him, when he wanted to. She pushed the thoughts away. His brows scrunched together as he flicked his gaze across her face.

“I still can’t believe what Mercer did to us,” he started with a scowl. “To _you_.” His other hand lifted to brush a few strands of her hair behind her ear, fingers ghosting down before landing on her shoulder. He meant to give a reassuring squeeze, but Fiona could only wince in response. A slight panic washed over his features as he tore his hand away.

Fiona shook her head, trying to reassure him. He couldn’t have known. She glanced back for a split second at the training dummy before deciding it was now or never. This wasn’t something to keep hidden, not after she had promised herself she would have no more secrets with Brynjolf. He watched her curiously as she lifted her fingers to the clasp at her neck, undoing the first few buttons of the armored coat she wore until she could pull the leather away enough for him to see.

The scar had begun to fade thanks to Karliah’s potions, but it was still visible on her pale skin. A bright red, jagged line that hooked from behind her ear down the side of her neck, darkening as it dropped further along her collar and shoulder. Fiona studied Brynjolf’s expression as it morphed from concern, to anger, to disbelief before he simply closed his eyes. He let out a deep breath before looking at her again. His hands raised to meet hers.

“Let me see.”

Fiona didn’t protest, understanding that this was a necessary part of his healing process. She allowed him to help her discard her coat completely, tossing it over the top of one of the chests. The blouse she wore beneath was loose enough that she could simply shrug her shoulder from the sleeve, bracing one her hands against her chest so it wouldn’t expose _too_ much. Brynjolf let out another steady breath as he inspected the healing wound, his fingers gingerly tracing over the scar, careful not to apply too much pressure. His eyes were dark when they met hers again, and she read the question in his mind.

She nodded. “Mercer.”

“He’ll pay,” Brynjolf muttered. “He made me think that you were dead, told me lies to taint your memory. It cannot stand.”

Fiona wasn’t sure what to say, her chest expanding with an emotion she couldn’t place. She wasn’t sure that she even wanted to know. She was simply glad that Brynjolf was there to provide her this kind of comfort and reassurance. Without it, she wasn’t sure if she could survive being there any longer. Her eyes dipped for a moment to his lips and she felt her heart ache for the way he had embraced her not a few hours prior.

“You kissed me,” she abruptly voiced.

Brynjolf raised a brow at her. And then, he smirked, the familiar sight calming her. “Aye. I’ve done that plenty of times now.” 

“Not like _that_ ,” she clarified. “Not like…before. You’ve never had that much…emotion.” Fiona could feel the heat radiating off of his hand as he lightly gripped her arm. “I didn’t know you were capable of such…” she trailed, not sure why she had even brought it up.

“Maybe I should do it again,” he offered. The brief slyness he had shown slipped away as his tone shifted into something serious. “Just to prove to you that I can.”

Fiona nodded. “You should.”

 _Anything_ to have him continue holding her, touching her in this tender way. His palm rested against her cheek, his other hand pulling on her arm to gently bring her closer. Fiona flicked her eyes closed as she felt the heat of his breath fan across her lips.

She heard footsteps.

“Good, you’re both here.”

Delvin’s voice cut through the air like another thrown dagger. Fiona jerked herself away from Brynjolf, his hand lingering in the air where head had just been. He grimaced at Delivn, but the Breton didn’t seem to notice, or care what he had interrupted.

“Vex and I have run Riften up and down, through and though.” He shook his head. “There’s no sign of Mercer. The bastard.”

“What now?” Fiona asked when the silence between them dragged on. She watched as Brynjolf and Delvin exchanged a few looks, the movement in their faces subtle, as if they were trying to communicate without words. With a sigh, Delvin nodded, jutting his thumb over his shoulder.

“I’ll be waiting.” He turned on his heel and left the room. Fiona looked back to Brynjolf and wondered for a split second if the moment from before could be recaptured, but found his brows furrowed, clearly deep in thought. When he noticed her watching, he shook his head, dejected.

“Come see me at the Guildmaster’s desk,” he instructed, squeezing her hand one last time before following after Delvin.

Fiona sighed, shaking the remainder of her lingering unknown emotions away. There was work to do.


End file.
